Fallout: Assiniboia
by tbguy1992
Summary: War. War Never Changes. Winnipeg survived the nuclear war through either sheer luck or miscalculations. But can the new Dominion of Assiniboia recreate the Canada destroyed by America before nuclear fire destroyed the world? And can they survive the threats both outside and within? New version being published: /s/9503084/1/Fallout-Assiniboia-2
1. Introduction - Chapter 1: High Noon

**Fallout Assiniboia: Intro**

_War. War never changes. With the end of civilization through atomic fire in 2077, the view survivors struggled to find a life in the new world that was so different from the old. Some of the lucky ones managed to live out the destruction and aftermath in the underground Vaults, sheltered from the harshness of the wastelands created overnight. Bands of violent raiders, militants interested in only rape and plunder, and horrible mutant creatures born from the radiation and the ruins all terrorized those that weren't able to find refuge in the Vaults, and who only wished to survive and continue in this hostile world._

_To the north, in the prairies of annexed Canada, a new power arose from the grips of the enslavement the people suffered at the hands of the United States. Winnipeg, a city that many overlooked or ignored not only survived when the bombs were unleashed, but continues to grow and prosper. After a brief insurrection, a nation was born of a multitude of ancient rivalries and tensions, and new threats and dangers. Under a façade of strength and unity, the Dominion Assiniboia lived in peace for many years, establishing themselves as the premier economic and military power of the Great Plains, continuing the traditions of the old Canada and the British Motherland in both law and government. Groups hostile to the nation are many, from the remnants of old America to technology worshipers, and they grow in strength, and it is not a matter of if, but when, they will besiege this one true remnant of the Old World._

_The climate was not as friendly, and only a few years after the war, a massive wall of ice arose in the north as Nuclear Winter swept around the world. The new mountains were a blessing and a curse: the cleanest water you could find melted off the glacier which supported Assiniboia, but dangers greater than any ever known lay frozen in time and space, waiting for the clock to strike midnight._

_Patrick Morrison, a young man with nothing to lose, left his hometown in disgrace, and set out to hide his problems and begin again. However, in a world that still reels from the decisions made almost two centuries before, Patrick will find himself in the midst of politics, crisis and war. But the past haunts, the present pains, and the future beckons, but for good or evil, it remains to be seen._

**Chapter One: High Noon**

**May 7, 2218**

**Melita, Manitoba, Dominion of Assiniboia**

There were stupid things, then there were stupid things. Ever since he hit puberty, Patrick Morrison had been testing those limits, whether he was trying to or not. A knack of always being in the wrong place at the wrong time, of luck that was very sour even at the best of times, dogged Pat to no end.

He always thought his hometown was the one place where he could escape the mistakes and accidents of his life, but this time that was not the case.

The three 10mm pistols and a sawed off shotgun pointed at him right at this moment proved that point all too well. Wielded by four identical men, all barrel chested, scarred, and wearing matching black suits, fedoras, and sunglasses, they were men not to be trifled with. They were part of a group of gangsters that controlled Brandon, about 140 kilometers to the northeast, and were known only as The Syndicate. And the sneers and furrowed eyebrows put it across that if you get on their bad side, or, rather, their boss's bad side, they wouldn't hesitate to break you. Heck, if you so much as looked at them funny, nothing could stop them.

"Alright Patty," the one with the shotgun said. "Enough of your games and trickery. Pay up now."

Patrick forced a smile. "What games? When have I ever tried to pull the wool over your eyes, Benny?"

The one with the shotgun, Benny, frowned even more than before. "I'm not here to hear your excuses. The money, now."

"It's not very polite for visitors to come in this late in the day without warning, you know? Was just about to have supper..."

"You can eat after you pay up," Benny growled, aiming the shot gun at Patrick's midsection.

The hostage knew perfectly well that the "Syndies" wouldn't leave until they got the money, or killed him, or at least crippled him enough to wish he was dead… But nobody carried two thousand pounds with them, unless they wanted to be robbed.

Well, at least normal people didn't…

"Alright, I have the money," Patrick sighed, leaning over for the Brahman skinned bag. Every pence he had…

He pulled up the bag, and reached into it. There was his journal… and there was the Brahman leather hat he usually wore, but took off because it got very sweaty and itchy wearing it. Not that it would have done him any good right now.

The four men lowered their guns briefly, their frowns not as big as before. After all, they were going to get paid, and, heck, they could still rough "Patty" up a bit before they left.

"KABAM!" a gunshot echoed, striking one of the thugs in the knee. KABAM! KABAM! KABAM! The other two were hit and dropped to the floor, but the last shot missed the leader with the shotgun. The hidden .44 in his backpack sure had a wallop of a punch.

Patrick jumped off his chair, only wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants giving him more flexibility than the suited thugs had. He rolled over to the nearest thug laying down on the floor, and grabbed the 10mm he had, and pulled it up to the leader.

Benny pulled the trigger, the scattergun firing its deadly projectiles toward Patrick. However, most of the force was taken by the thug he had incapacitated, the rest smashing into the wall of peeling wallpaper and paint, over 150 years old.

Patrick pulled the 10mm up, and shot three times at the one Syndicate still standing, making him shudder from the hits. With a groan, he then fell to the floor and lay still.

The young man stood up, and sighed. Well, Melita wasn't safe anymore. It was time to run again.

He ran over to his backpack, sighing at the four holes at the bottom of it. It should hold for a bit until he could get it patched, but not for long. He quickly threw on some clothes, something that wouldn't draw much attention. The dusty jacket, jeans, chaps and that hat in his bag would help make him look like most of the ranchers or traders in this area. That would have to do.

Patrick stood up as he heard a mumble, with several short gasps. He looked around, and saw that one of the thugs hit in the leg and chest, was trying to radio to his boss.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, kicking the Syndicate thug in the neck and shutting him up, grabbing the last few things he thought he would need. He threw his backpack on, before running out the door.

As he stepped over the leader, a hand reached out and grabbed his leg, making Patrick fall to the floor.

"Yurr not going anywhere!" Benny slurred, blood running from his mouth and nose.

A swift kick to the face, enough to break the nose, sent the thug screaming in pain.

"Sorry, I will have to pass today," Patrick quipped, before picking himself up and running out of the single room apartment.

As he jogged out the door, he nearly collided with a man walking down the hall.

"Patrick! What the hell is going on?" the older, white haired gentlemen in attire not dissimilar from Patrick's growled.

"Mr. Jamison," Patrick smiled. "Let's just say that a debt wasn't repaid today."

The old man groaned. "When are you going to give this up, young man?"

Patrick looked down at the floor boards. "Mr. Jamison, all I can say is that I would like to, but my luck just never seems to go my way, if you understand."

The old man scowled. "That was your excuse the last three times you came back here after something gone wrong at Winnipeg. I'm getting too old for this shit, you see. If you leave right now, you are not welcome back in this town until you clean up, you understand me?"

Patrick nodded solemly. "Yes Mr. Jamison." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. "At least take this for the rent and the damages,"

The old man took it, flipped through quickly, and pulled half of it out. "A few bullet holes and blood stains ain't a big deal." He tossed the rest back. "Just get your life together."

"Yes sir," Patrick said, sliding by the landlord.

"Now git! The Mounties will be here soon, and you better not be!"

Patrick sketched a salute, and continued his run out of the house.

As he stepped outside, Patrick could hear the tell-tale sign of galloping hooves, signifying the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police were dashing to the scene. Riding beasts that kind of resembled pre- Great War horses, the mutated creatures now had six legs, while being almost half as large again as the old equines. Tellingly, they were called sleipnir's (or, more often, a "slepy") after the old Norse mythological eight legged horse, like how the Brahmin were called such after the Hindu legend.

But the RAMP, not to mention most of rural Assiniboia, used the creatures for transportation. And as Patrick looked around, his massive black stallion, Demon, was tied up beside the four that the members of the Syndicate used to get here. With a grin, the newly minted fugitive ran up, and hooked his foot into the stirups, and swung himself over.

Demon shuffled a bit, and nickered softly.

"Sorry boy, time to head out of town," Patrick said, pulling out a switchblade and cutting the rope. "Hiya!" with a kick, Demon reared, whinnied, and galloped off in the opposite direction of the Mounties.

They ran down the old, unkept paved streets of Melita, before turning north and heading up the hill of the Souris River Valley that the small town of a few hundred people was nestled in. If he was lucky, Mr. Jamison would cover up what happened, maybe say that he went south, reading for Minot, instead of North. If he could get to at least Pipestone before the sun set, he would be in the clear, he was sure.

If he could get that far…

**May 7, 2218**

**Melita, Manitoba, Assiniboia**

Mr. Jamison watched the armor clad paramilitary men, wearing the wide-brimmed Stetson's and red jackets that their ancient predecessor's wore, as they looked over the crime scene that became his boarding house. The Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police were the best investigators in the nation, perhaps the world, but there was little they could do here. Having told them that Patrick went south, they sent a few men that way, as well as a radio alert to other places around the area, but Jamison knew, as much as they did, that having an hour head start pretty much meant that the suspect would never be found. They went through the actions, nevertheless, and got all the evidence they could, if just to file away reports that would never be read, but must be oh so lovingly maintained.

"Mayor Jamison?" the head of the local RAMP detachment, Captain Craig Daniel asked, coming to a halt and giving a crisp salute near the mayor. "Do you mind if I ask a couple questions?"

The mayor looked over the young, 20 something man in front of him with his weathered eyes. Very few people called him "mayor," just those that had been raised in the towns and cities, along with those from out of Assiniboia. Melita, like most small towns in Assiniboia, had a mayor that was often proclaimed by majority vote ever five years. Roy Phillip Jamison was the man that was currently chosen, and so long as he didn't kill anyone (or, at least anyone that was a law abiding citizen, or a town hero) he would continue to be elected. He could siphon all the money in the bank to his needs, and no one but the few tee-toller's in the area would bat an eyelash. Of course, if he did, and was found out, he would most likely be shoot before the hour was out.

"What would you like?" the mayor finally replied to the Captain.

He maintained a vigilant pose, but pulled out a large, well used notepad and poised a pen over it. "Do you know anything about these men?"

Jamison shrugged. "Dunno. Most likely from Brandon, out to try to get some payment for their bosses, or break some skulls, or something."

The officer nodded, but the Mayor could see him grip his now scribbling pencil a bit tighter. Brandon was one of the few places in what used to be Manitoba not under Assiniboian control, if for no other reason that the city was taken over by criminal families in the aftermath of the war, mostly the ones that traveled from the old US seeking a new city to lay under their control, like they had Chicago and Florida before the War. And Winnipeg hated that, and that went down to the RAMP officer's that kept the peace. There was no real law in Brandon, just the little that existed from having a bigger gun than the other guy.

"Any idea why… Patrick had a run in with them?"

Mr. Jamison shrugged again. "I'm not one to poke my nose into other people's business. But I do know that Patrick is a good kid, just with a string of bad luck around him. Could sell a painting to a blind man, or a super mutant, but he just isn't someone to settle down."

The RAMP officer scribbled it down. "Either way, there are four men dead, and, despite the fact that they are gangsters, he is a suspect in this case."

"Understood," the mayor replied. "Is that all?"

The RAMP officer shook his head. "One more thing. I've received word from Winnipeg that we are supposed to tell all those in positions of authority."

The mayor perked his ears. The Dominion, so long as you paid the taxes and didn't kill anyone, normally left well enough alone. "oh? What is it?"

Captain Daniel leaned forward. "Apparently, tensions are brewing down by Fargo. The Brotherhood of Steel is making noise again, recruiting locals and raising their army, and how Assiniboia shouldn't exist for having technology that only they should have, and that sort of thing."

The mayor's eyebrow went up. "Isn't that what they normally say? And why is Winnipeg concerned now?"

"May is the best time of year to launch military attacks, so the army command says. And Prime Minister McGregor is trying to prove he can stand up to them," the captain replied. "I honestly can't see much happening, but some of us Mounties might be withdrawn if tensions continue."

Now the mayor was concerned. If the RAMP detachment, a grand total of seven men that served the area from Highway 254 to the old Saskatchewan border, and south from the old American border to Road 345 was reduced, regular patrols may have to be cut back, and possibly civilian deputies would have to be raised to look after the town. That was something that the mayor didn't particularly look forward to, because picking random people to be the police would lead to violence and anger, especially when old scores that sometimes go back generations are settled… temporarily, of course. And that would all lead to problems that he would have to deal with…

"Well, let's hope those folks in the Ledge don't over-react to this," was all Mr. Jamison said. The captain may have known what the mayor was thinking, but he didn't let it show.

"As for now…" the captain looked at the three other RAMP officer's putting the dead gangster's into body bags. "We'll have to deal with them."

**May 7, 2217**

**Outside Pipestone, Manitoba, Assiniboia**

The steady rhythm of slepy hooves on the crumbling asphalt was enough to nearly lull Patrick to sleep, which the setting sun to his left didn't help matters much. He hadn't eaten at all since he left Melita, and he decided against stopping in Pipestone. If he was going to stop anywhere, it might as well be in the open prairie. After all, who was to say the gangster's that he was running from didn't have a few stationed in Pipestone waiting for him?

But sleeping on the prairie wasn't very safe either. Big coyotes, four feet high at the shoulder, prowled around the area, looking for a Brahmin to hunt down. Even slepy's could be taken down by a pack of them, though the equines could outrun them if given enough warning.

But other creatures were hidden out there. Mosquitoes were a pain, since they could inject radiation straight into you, not to mention diseases. And then there were the wild slepy's that roamed in herds that numbered in the hundreds. They didn't food for months, and could store water for weeks, and they were vicious sonsabtiches, ready to trample and pulverize anything that they considered a threat. The coyotes and slepy's often got into vicious fights, and were oftentimes interesting to watch from a great distance.

Patrick sighed, and pulled the riens of his slepy. "Alright Demon, we better stop for the night."

The equine snorted, and kicked at the ground with his massive hooves as Patrick dismounted, showing his displeasure at being halted, even though the sun was setting. Slepy's had incredible eyesight, or so it was told, in that it didn't matter if it was day or night.

"just for a few hours, okay? You can eat the grass around here, and get some food stored up. I don't know how often we will stop after this."

The slepy waved it's head, almost as if trying to roll it's eyes, but it began grazing as Patrick opened up his pack and pulled out a couple food packages to eat. Lighting a campfire was more for protection, as wild beasts were more likely to stay away from it due to the dangerous nature of fire.

A cold wind roared from the north, making Patrick shiver. It was a good things his sleeping bag was warm, and the fire could help add some warmth. That glacier to the far north was a miserable place to be, what with the cold and almost constant background radiation. Unless you were an ice ghoul, and you could withstand both the radiation and the ice…

As soon as Patrick tucked himself in the sleeping bag he passed out into a dreamless slumber. He didn't wake up until he felt something nudge him. It was insistent, and at last forced Patrick awake. He rolled over in his sleeping bag to come face to face with the one that woke him.

Patrick's eyes opened wide as he scrambled out of the bag, a hunting rifle pointed at him, held by a rather pissed off Native-American male.

"You picked the wrong place to camp, Assy" the gruff man stated, using the gun to get Patrick on his feet, using the derogatory term for an Assiniboian. A loud whiney got Patrick's attention, as he saw five other men tie up Demon.

"What do you want?" Patrick asked, shaking from more than just the cold.

"I don't decide that. But the Chief will for your trespassing on the Rezz."


	2. Chapter 2: The Wayward Wind

**Chapter Two: The Wayward Wind**

**May 8, 2218**

**Outside Pipestone, Manitoba, Assiniboia**

Patrick, relieved of his backpack and all his arms, including his trusty .44 Magnum, was now waiting as patiently as a prisoner in a hostile place could, expecting his number to have finally come up. After all, you don't mess with the Indians of Assiniboia. Ever since the War, they had established themselves as a huge political force, taking advantage of the power struggle to reclaim their ancestral lands and old time traditions. The problem was that after centuries of European domination, and then the destruction of the War of 2077, that it was impossible to revert exactly to pre-Columbian times. Not that they didn't try, this teepee of Brahmin hide an example of what they tried to reclaim.

Patrick cringed as the rope around his wrists cut into his flesh. They knew how to tie things up, that was or sure. After all, better to make sure that their Chief, whomever he was, was going to be safe up against an Assiniboian. That power struggle the Indians took advantage of? Yeah, Assiniboia wasn't to happy about that, as much as they are about Brandon becoming gangster haven. But what can you do?

"Well, I can't do anything," the young man muttered, leaning against the wooden post that held up the shelter. They somehow even managed to take the switchblade that Patrick had hidden on his body in case of emergency, which was particularly annoying. Might have been able to sneak out…

Then again, the Indian was a noteworthy trapper and hunter. They would have found him, nine times out of ten, and he would be killed there instead of having his chance with a plea bargain.

At last, before the sheer boredom and terror could conspire to make his do something foolish, the tent opened up, and in walked both an old man, and an even older women. They both were symbols of what they wanted to do, but couldn't quite achieve, wearing traditional leather and bead garments, along with old pants and t-shirts. However, the seriousness on their faces was enough to make Patrick shiver, expecting them to decide his fate here and there. The wrinkles on their dark faces made them seem older, especially in the darkness of the tent, while they both had imperviously stern expression to keep their emotions at bay.

"Greetings, young Assiniboian," the old man stated in a deep, booming voice. "I am Chief Wolf-Who-Stands-Tall, and this is our Shaman, Quiet Owl. We are here to talk with you."

Patrick looked around, expecting an executioner to come along as well. "What punishment are you going to take on me?"

The old chief shook his head. "We see no need to punish you, for you mistakenly slept on the lands that we use. They are not ours alone, but belong to everyone, something our warriors often forget.

"However, since you are here, we have a small favor to ask of you."

Patrick sighed softly in relief. Well, Death was going to have to wait again.

"What do you need?"

The Chief held up his hand. "Before I tell you, a test to see if you are worthy." He pulled out Patrick's switchblade from a pocket, and set it two feet away from the tied up Assiniboian. "Get yourself out of those ropes."

Patrick looked down at the knife, out of reach. "Are you serious?"

Neither the Chief nor the Shaman replied, instead facing Patrick with their stone cold glare. Patrick sighed, and began contemplating what to do. After a moment, he realized his legs were untied, something that completely escaped him when he was concerned with life and death. He looked to see the leather boots he normally wore were still on, but he still managed to kick both his legs out, and used his left foot to kick off his right boot. Now only in socks, Patrick stretched his foot as far as possible, and managed to hook on the knife.

With a grin and a silent cheer, Patrick started pulling the knife closer to him, folding his legs up again. When it was within range, he leaned down and picked it up with his teeth, and carefully dropped it on his shoulder, and then rolled the shoulder to knock the knife back, where it fell on his hand, and landed on the ground.

Now so close, he reached for the knife, pressed the button to allow the blade out, and started cutting the rope. Within moments, the rope snapped, and both his arms were free.

The Chief nodded sagely. "You have many talents, young wanderer, and such talents are useful to all, both great and small throughout the world. The question is, will you use it for good, or evil?"

Patrick using the knife to cut away the rest of the ropes on his wrists shrugged. "I'm not a man that plays sides, Chief Wolf-Who-Stands-Tall. I do what I can to survive in this world."

The leader of the Indians here on the Rezz shook his head. "Everyone must choose a side, sooner or later. The small slepy of true neutrality is hard to ride, if for no other reason that is too small. All I can hope is that you see it for the best to do what is right.

Patrick stood up. "I understand."

The Chief rose, and clasped a calloused hand on Patrick's shoulder. "I don't think you do, but time will tell. But, before you go, may I ask a favor of you?"  
Patrick stopped, and turned. "What do you need?"

Chief Wolf-Who-Stands-Tall looked sad, when he at last spoke. "A young woman, by the name of Deer Wing, has vanished from out village. She is a good hunter for her age, but has yet to learn the need for silence and stealth. And she has been missing for many days now. I have sent warriors and hunters to look for her, but nothing has been found. Can you please help us find her?"

Patrick looked back at the Chief. "Is she your daughter?"

"My grand-daughter."

Patrick stroked his cheek, realizing suddenly that he hadn't shaved in a while. "I can keep my eyes out for her. Where was she last?"

"To the west, hunting. Maybe you will find something our warriors did not." He grabbed the younger man's hand. "I know you said you are not a man who fights for any side, but find it within you to help us now."

Patrick paused, and began thinking about it. He wanted to get as far away from Melita, and the gangsters, and possibly all of Assiniboia. Start a new life in Ontario or Alberta, far away from here. But, at the same time, he owed these people for not killing him… and if he found nothing, well, at least he tried.

At last Patrick nodded. "Alright, I'll look."

Patrick rode Demon through the prairies of the Rezz, going west. The equine snorted as he walked along, wondering why they were no longer on the somewhat easier to cross highways (no matter how wrecked they were), and in the tall grasses that hid the old barbed wire fences, gopher holes and other traps for the octoped.

"Just for a bit longer… I haven't seen much of anything either," Patrick replied, patting the neck of the ill-tempered beast. The slepy seemed to accept it, for a few more meters, before an unseen drop startled him.

"Whoa!" Patrick called, pulling on the reins to prevent Demon from falling. One thing about eight legs: much more stable riding over these bumps. Not that the slepy liked it either way.

Patrick pulled the now agitated equine to a halt. "Alright, settle down. I'll walk from here."

He swung off the horse, and landed on the ground with a thud. Patrick took a moment to stretch, as his legs were getting stiff form riding on the beast.  
The man looked over his shoulder, and paused. Right at the base of the hole his steed nearly feel in, was a small duffel bag, along with some other effects. He knelt down, and started looking at what he saw. The bag held some food, namely fruits and vegetables, and the ever popular pemmican, which was easy to make and store. But what caught his eye was the beading, along with a bow and arrows. The Indians were especially good with archery, bullets being at a premium.

"Damn, is this that girls place?" Patrick muttered, before picking up the bag. He turned it over, and saw, stitched in the canvas, "DEER WING."

"Well, that answers that question… now what?" he mumbled.

Demon nickered softly, before he began pawing at the ground again. Patrick looked over to the slepy, and saw a piece of paper by his hoof.

"What did ya get there?" the human pondered, before picking up the note. It was only half a note, with a large chunk of it ripped off.

_ …the girl to Virden Market, and ask for Marcus. You will be paid after the whore is in Brandon safely._

_-The Boss_

Patrick looked at the note for a long moment, before looking back to where the duffel bag was. Now that he looked closer, he could see quite a few foot prints around, and some blood. All signs of a struggle.

"Well, I guess we go back to the Rezz, and figure out what to do now."

The chief, needless to say, didn't take it well.

"The Spirit's be damned! I swear on my father's grave, I will get her back! Those god-damned fuckers! I… I…" he stammered, before his head fell down, and he began tearing up.

Patrick winced as the chief, alone in his tent, hurled abuse on the gangsters of The Syndicate. No denying it, he loved the girl. The alcohol, and he must have been drinking it a lot in the past few days (if the empty bottles in the corner said anything), was getting to him now.

The tears only ran for a moment, before the wizened man took a few deep breathes, and poured himself a glass of whiskey, before inhaling it and getting himself another. Nothing like booze to soften the blow of pain, Patrick knew all too well.

Chief Wolf-Who-Stands-Tall turned to Patrick, the stone face returning, but now with red, bloodshot eyes. "Look, I hate to say this to you, as you are trying to get away, but can you please find my girl? Do whatever you need to, just please find her!"

Patrick looked at the old man, pleading for help. He had no idea what to do now, torn between trying to save himself, and save this girl. After all, if she was in Brandon, there were only three things Deer Wing could look forward to: prostitution, slavery or death. And, from what Patrick had heard, the first two wouldn't be able to contain her…

The young man looked over. "This is going to be very dangerous. You're asking me to poke my nose into the den of thieves and murderers, a group of which want's my hide. If I go, I can't even guarantee my own safety. But, I will see what I can do."

The old man looked up to Patrick. "You serious?"

Patrick offered a small smile. "Hey, you were the one that told me to do the right thing, and this is that thing."

Chief Wolf-Who-Stands-Tall burst into tears again, but this time of joy. "Oh thank you! You have no idea what this means to me!"

Patrick nodded, and began to stand up, but the chief pulled him down again. "Wait, before you go…" He stood up, a bit wobbly, and made his way to the back of his tent, stumbling over himself. He at last reached the back of the teepee, and pulled out a small cloth bag. He turned around, and walked back to his spot on the floor, and handed the bag to Patrick.

"Take this…" he said, pushing it into the Assiniboian's hands. Patrick took it, and opened it up, revealing an old and worn piece of electronics, with the motto "Pip-Boy Model 3000" on the side, along with multiple buttons, dials and switches, along with a blank screen. Patrick turned it over, before accidently hitting a button at the top, which made the device come to life. A picture of a cartoon boy showed up, with different bars to show many different things about a person."

The Chief smiled. "My family was part of Vault H, north of Winnipeg. When they came out, they came back here, and my great grandfather used that till the day he died. However, it was then passed down for generations, but we never used it. But it will help you more than me."

Patrick looked down at it. "Well… thank you. I'm sure I can find some use for it." He smiled again, before slipping the device over his left arm, and then tightened the straps to make it fit better.

The chief stood up again. "I hope when you come back, you will return with good news."

Patrick stood up as well, as shook hands with the chief. "As do I."

* * *

_**Pip-Boy Model 3000A****  
Note 7778: A (Brief) History of Assiniboia! (Updated: May 9, 2125)**_

_Greetings, new citizen/resident of the Dominion of Assiniboia. If you are reading this, you are most likely from a town that has just agreed to come under the jurisdiction or protection of our fair nation. And again, welcome!_

_To help you settle in your new role as part of the great nation, let us tell you a bit about ourselves._

_1. Before Assiniboia_

_Before the War of 2077 (or the Great War, Great Fire, End-of-Humanity-As-We-Knew-It, etc.) the United States, in a bid for world domination, took over Canada to use the dwindling resources for their own use in fighting the Chinese in Alaska, and later the Chinese mainland itself, not to mention for their own use at home. Garrisons were established in the major cities, and the leaders of the old Dominion were forced into hiding, and all resistance was destroyed by the power-armoured men. Once such leader was former Manitoba Premier Duncan Cooper, who, a few weeks after the two hour war, led an armed revolt against the leaderless, demoralized, and shrinking American garrison. After a short fight, the garrison surrendered, and Premier Cooper declared the annexation of Winnipeg over._

_However, the Nuclear Winter that followed the war has harsh, and lasted for many years. Once fertile farmland was made useless by irradiated snow and winds. This lead to a great glacier rising from the north to cover most of the northern part of Canada, as much as seven-tenths of old Canada! However, even before the war, most people lived in the South within a couple hundred miles of the American border, so it was not as bad as it could have been. But the old mines and hydro-electric plants of the north are now inaccessible, so only the more limited resources of the South were available. However, the ingenuity and perseverance of Canadians in general, and Assiniboians in particular, allowed us to thrive and prosper, but not before sacrifice had to be made._

_2. Creating Assiniboia_

_From this start, Premier Cooper quickly set out to establish a government to care for the people of Winnipeg, starting with rationing and healthcare, and then protection from a myriad of mutated creatures that started appearing. This was no easy task. Refugee's fled to Winnipeg, and the food supply, already rationed, came under huge strain. With the lack of major agriculture, a crash program to grow food with greenhouses and inner-city gardens began. Thousands died from radiation poisoning, starvation and everything that the new Wasteland threw at the people. From just over a million people in 2077, Winnipeg's population dropped to nearly 300,000 in the first two decades._

_But Cooper was not to be dissuaded. On January 1, 2081, the Dominion of Assiniboia was declared, including the city of Winnipeg and surrounding areas. Although rationing and martial law were still in place, things were looking up. The old Royal Canadian Mounted Police were reformed as the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police, and they now protect our great land from outside threats. This, in a world were banditry, slavery and murder are all problems, raised Assiniboia as a shining beacon in the sky._

_3. Expanding Assiniboia_

_So, from it's small start in 2081, Assiniboia began to grow outwards. Strategic targets, like old military bases (such as the old Canadian Camp Shilo, and the American Fort Headingly), as well as the old hydro dams were first priorities, and using the resources of Winnipeg, many were restored to working order. As well, many towns sought protection with the RAMP, and Assiniboia was generous to provide said protection, only asking for some levies in return to support them. In time, many of these towns, including Steinbach, Mordler, Porlapra, Selkirk, Vault H and many others joined Assiniboia with such other places like Boissevain, Killarn, Virden and Melita currently under our protection but outside our juridstiction. Settlers also push east and north, seeking areas to prosper, and if they want, Assiniboia goes with them._

_With our commitment to Peace, Order and Good Government, the Dominion of Assiniboia is the most stable country in the interior of North America, and the most free. All religions are tolerated, and local government is preserved as much as possible. Your business is your own, and the government sees no need to interfere in your private lives. Heck, even though it hasn't happened yet, you can leave Assiniboia. But why would you want to?_

_We may not be perfect, but who is? But we do our best, and you are proof of that. So welcome to Assiniboia!_


	3. Chapter 3: Little Things Mean a Lot

**Chapter Three: Little Things Mean a Lot**

**May 9, 2218**

**Virden, Manitoba, Assiniboia**

Way back when the world wasn't a desert of radiation and terror, Virden, Manitoba, was the center of a small, but thriving oil industry. Not like Alberta or Texas, but South-Western Manitoba was sitting on an oil field that continued to reap huge rewards for those lucky enough to have land where the black gold was. While the rest of the world suffered as economies ground to a halt and riots ensued, Manitoba became one of the last places in North America with a viable livelihood rooted in petroleum. It wouldn't have lasted much longer, of course, as the oil field was drying up, and fission cars were starting to be built. But, at least when that happened, the oil workers and the farmers who's land they drilled the wells on were multi-millionaires from the rights alone.

But the moment the bombs fell, all that wealth was gone. The American money (and the old Canadian bills with "APPROVED BY U.S. OCCUPATION ATHORITY" stamped on them) were worthless. Gold, which some held in lieu of paper, was useless as few wanted money, but something to sustain life. Plus, what was the gold worth? It was difficult to determine in the return of a barter economy, so the bars and coins were left in boxes as the farmer's fled to the towns, seeking refuge from a land that went from prosperous and rich to barren and hostile.

But Virden, as were many other small towns, were lucky. After all, they weren't targeted directly, and the closest target was either Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota, Regina in Saskatchewan, or fortunate Winnipeg. Only the radiation, which killed and mutated some that remained after the infighting, the starvation and the terror of those few years after the War of 2077, affected the people of the region. The nuclear winter, although giving rise to the glacier that is over the entire north, wasn't as bad as thought.

For defense, all the old pumpjacks and oil rigs were torn down to build a wall around the center of the town, protecting the citizens from the hostile elements and the raiders that appeared after the war. It wasn't perfect, but at least it was strong enough to keep the animals and the less determined raiders out. Although Virden has been part of Assiniboia for over 60 years now, the wall was still there, around the new market place.

Having tied Demon to a post outside the wall, Patrick now casually strolled through the market. As the largest town in this part of Assiniboia, it was a major trade center, linking the west and south to the old TransCan that used to stretch from one ocean to another. If you needed something, you would most likely be able to find it in Virden.

The young man walked past the many stands and criers and shoppers, all of whom were shouting, barking and haggling with each other, announcing their wares and trying to buy and sell, where one person's barter skill determined how much they would go home with. However, the Marcus on the note just wasn't around, no matter who he asked. Most likely was a Syndicate member that was only here to pick up the girl. Damn it.

With that lead cold, Patrick decided some shopping was in order. He wasn't interested in homegrown fruit or vegetables, or scraps or scavenges. Now, he wanted firepower. His .44 magnum, while a good revolver, just wasn't going to be enough. He walked along until he noticed the old building with GUNS painted on the front of it. Taking a left, Patrick walked through the old door and into the building.

It was dimly lit, with only candles and the light the window allowed in providing any illumination to the wares on display. And what wares there were! Old sniper rifles, hunting long arms, revolvers, laser weapons and even an older, well-worn minigun leaning against the wall were all there, all for sale at the right price.

"Can I help you stranger?" a gruff voice called behind Patrick, making him turn to face the short, bald man in a dirty apron smeared in grease and oil. A dirty mustache and mutton chops gave him a respectable, tough figure, a man that worked hard and prospered in even these times, and unafraid to bust a few heads that get in the way. It didn't hurt that he was selling one of the most sought after items in the wasteland.

"Yeah, could use some more firepower," Patrick said, picking up a rifle and taking a look at it.

"Hmmm… well, what are we thinking of? Something as a last resort? Take the fight to them? Stopping power? What are you thinking?"

Patrick set down the rifle he had in his hands, and looked to the laser rifle next to it. "Well, stopping power will be nice, but something that can be somewhat intimidating as well."

The gunsmith stroked his clean shaven chin, and hmmed and hawed, before snapping his black colored fingers. "How about an assault rifle?"

Patrick looked to the shop owner, who pulled a nice, clean, powerful weapon from under the desk. "The Type-93 People's Liberation Army assault rifle. Fire's 5.56 mm rounds in a 24 chamber round. You don't usually see these babies except way to the east near ol' D.C. but this here found its way up here, and I've been working on it for a few years, machining the parts to make it click." To prove the point, he pulled magazine out from where the weapon was hidden, and smoothly put it all together, and chambered a round, before turning toward the back of his shop, where a miniature gun range stood, and fired a short burst, a sound that echoed through the small shop. The sound continued ringing in Patrick's ears as the gunsmith retrieved the canvas target he fired at, showing the holes on it as it was painted on the canvas.

"About as straight you can get an assault weapon to shoot," he beamed in pride, pulling out the magazine to reload it. "You will have to actively work to make this jam and break, and you will be surprised what you can do to replace any broken part."

Patrick nodded in appreciation. "A very nice gun indeed," he admitted. "Now, how much are you willing to sell it for."

The gunsmith ran a calloused finger over it, pondering for a few moments. "How about nine hundred pounds?"

Patrick nearly gaged. "That… that is banditry! How about five? That should have covered it."

The old man frowned. "Getting this weapon to work was a very expensive proposition, and you won't find a similar weapon for two thousand kilometers. How about 825?"

The young man grimaced. "I can't afford that if I want to survive out here. Six hundred fifty."

The gun smith looked wounded. "Are you trying to starve me? I know I like my food, but you are trying to kill me!" he mocked anger. "I can go for 750."

"Seven hundred?"

"Seven fifty."

"Throw in twelve magazines?"

"I can do nine."

"Alright then," Patrick sighed, reaching into his bag to pull out the money to pay it. That was going to cut into what he had, and would make it very difficult to carry on without needing to take a job. But the gun was perhaps the best you could find in this area, and finding ammo was easy, with the 5.56 mm a fairly common type, one that Assiniboia still made. And the fact he managed to get the gunsmith down from 900£ to 750 and some ammo. There were better weapons, sure, but they were either more prone to break or the ammo was difficult to find. This was the best he was going to do for a while.

The gunsmith took the bills and coins, most bearing the stern image of the King of England, the old monarch of Canada before the war. It wasn't even possible for the monarch to be alive, it was generally assumed, but the idea that Assiniboia had this symbol of authority that dominates the institutions of the state just like old Canada. The smaller bills had the great Prime Ministers of Assiniboia on it, but that was just expected, to some degree. Never underestimate a politician putting a dead one that can't contradict him on something everyone uses, making it seem as if the older guy would tolerate what he does today.

Patrick took the rifle in his hands, and whistled softly at how comfortable it was to hold, maybe even better than his old .44. The .44 was still useful, but this new weapon would make what he had to do to rescue Deer Wing easier.

"By the way, you didn't happen to hear of a young girl, about 18 or so, having been brought through her?"

The gunsmith, having put the money away, turned around. "A young girl?"

Patrick nodded. "Was kidnapped from her home, and most likely on her way to Brandon."

The gunsmith paused and looked deeply at Patrick. "Brandon?" The young man nodded.

The old man took a deep breath, his hands clutching the counter so hard his knuckles turned white. "Those fucking Syndicate bastards there. That's the reason I'm here, in this rundown dump." Patrick was about to ask when the old man swung himself on the counter, only to see that the man had one leg.

"The gangsters killed my ma and pa years ago, living on a small farm outside Oak Lake, after they refused to give them all there food. Fucking mines they put around the farm after took my leg." The old man looked up to Patrick. "I have never been able to take my revenge, and the Mounties can't do a fucking thing since Brandon gets to pretend to be its own fucking country. Why I started making and repairing guns, imaging each one going to kill another of those Syndie bastards." He pulled Patrick closer. "I saw the girl, bound and tied, riding in an old car wagon pulled by Brahman. Didn't see the men, but they had that look about them. That was only a few hours ago, you might be able to get them yet."

Patrick grinned. If he could get the girl, then maybe he can get going on his way back to… wherever the hell he was going.

The gunsmith swung back behind the counter as Patrick was leaving. "Wait!" he called, pulling a few bills from the box that he kept it in, and handed them to Patrick.

The young man frowned, and counted. "Why are you giving me seven hundred pounds?"

"Well, you overpaid a lot, you realize," the old man said, the steel he worked with daily coming out. "And just remember, if you ever come back, you got a friend in this town."

Patrick nodded, and sketched a salute. "I'll pay those bastards back, you see." The door slammed shut, and Patrick ran down to where Demon was tied and nibbling on the hardy grasses that grew up in between the cracked pavement. The gunsmith looked out the window, out to where the young man and his beast began riding north east.

"I have no doubt you will," he smiled, a vengeful smile that recalled the dreams of revenge that had been laid out for many years.

* * *

**Pip-Boy Model 3000A**

**Note 1: Canada, Vaults and You!**

Greeting's to your prospective new home in safety and shelter, away from the radiation and nuclear hellfire that may someday blanket the earth! Your friends at Vault-Tec North, in cooperation with the local, provincial and Dominion governments and private sources, has established these shelters with the express purpose of protecting you, your family and future generations should everything go south. Every amenity that you would require is available, from state of the art food supply systems, medical stores, underground greenhouses and a fission reactor capable of powering a small city.

Now you might be wondering "Why should I lock myself underground when the rest of the world begins through nuclear tipped missiles around? Canada doesn't have any!" Well, hypothetical Canadian, that will not protect you if the dirty Communists in China decide that your parliamentary, democratic and peace loving traditions are completely contrary to the writings of Marx and Mao. Just the opposite! The close alliance Canada has with the leader of the Free World, the United States of America, leaves you as a prime strategic target. Should the bombs fall, they will do what they can to make sure the long living alliance will be destroyed, and America will not be able to use your land and resources to retaliate.

Another question you may have is: "The US is building a bunch of vaults though the massive Project Safehouse... is Canada involved in that?" And to that we answer no! Or, for you French-Canadians, non!

While Project Safehouse is one of the most ambitious public works projects since the Great Depression, it is only the work of the United States. While Vault-Tec North is a subsidiary of the larger Vault-Tec, we are not involved in Safehouse. But this does not mean that our commitment to your safety is any different. The 14 vaults that are being built outside major Canadian cities are of a completely different than most of those that are being built in the US: larger and just as well equipped as those that you hear south of the 49 parallel.

"How will we know when it will be safe to come out?" might be another question you ask. Well, to answer that question, science! Monitors and sensors connected to the Vault command center will measure outside radiation and environmental factors, and then when it is safe to come out, the Vault will let you know! Now, we have no idea how long it might be before you can leave the vault, but we will make sure that you will enjoy those years in comfort and safety!

So, remember that you can only find the safety of an uncertain tomorrow in a Vault-Tec shelter, provided by your friends at Vault-Tec North!


	4. Chapter 4: I Walk the Line

**Chapter Four: I Walk The Line**

**May 11, 2218**

**Independent State of Brandon**

The eighty kilometers to Brandon, just about the distance from Melita to Virden, was long and, while not dangerous, gave the appearance of the calm before the storm. Patrick Morrison knew that before him was The Syndicate; the most feared and well organized group west of Ronto. They were dealers in drugs, booze, prostitutes, gambling and any other illegal and semi-legal activity that they could get their hands on. Fear, intimidation and terror were their weapons, and they were well used, in a brunt force way that brooked no argument.

Patrick knew all this, because for eighteen months, he worked with them. Not on the illegal ends, but as part of the casino operations, working first as a table dealer, then an assistant manager to the casino… then it all collapsed around him.

It was behind him, but he was walking back right into it. And the Syndicate will not look kindly on him not only walking away with money that he was owed but not given, but killing four of their own would do little to endure him to the head honcho of The Syndicate, known only as The Boss.

But it was for the girl. It was simple. Go in, find her, get her, get out. Four simple steps. But those four steps had no plans tied to them, and the only sure thing was that shooting would be involved. Patrick knew how to handle a gun, so he wasn't worried about that. But how do you find one Indian in a town that had at 20,000 people, a third drunk, another third drugged up, yet another third desperate, with a thin layer of men who wanted him dead. Fully half of those had some kind of weapon, and knew how to use it. The other half that didn't would still try

Patrick had his work cut out for him.

The eight-legged equine plodded past the two armed guards, both of whom were wearing the black suits of the Syndicate, along with sub-machineguns being held haphazardly by their side. Beside them, an old sign welcoming visitors to the "Wheat City," a name that had lost significance since no one knew what "wheat" was. Most likely some old world plant that was made extinct after the war, but few knew, except from the few pictures of Brandon with the so-called "wheat." It was a couple hours before sunset, and that was the time most people came. One dusty, unshaven, unkempt rider of a slepy looked much like another, and by this time of the day, everyone looked similar. At least, that was what Patrick was hoping for.

Passing the first hurdle to the entrance to Brandon, now the second problem reared its head… where to look for a girl that he didn't even have a picture of? Patrick winced as he realized that she was now the metaphorical needle in the hay stack and finding her would be akin to a miracle.

Tramping down the street, Patrick continued looking left and right to the unwashed masses that filled the town of ill-repute, looking for both danger and Deer Wing. If he could just find this girl.

As he continued down the street, he noticed the old Casino he used to work at, the Lucky Nines. He grimaced a bit, realizing that he was, indeed, where his luck really went south, just as many people who thought gambling was the best way to make a fortune.

Patrick had no idea why, but something was convincing him to get off his mount and take a look around, like as if someone was controlling him, thinking that maybe he would find something useful. Patrick chuckled a bit. Who knows? After all, the gangsters here weren't known for their brains, so maybe they just left something around? Seemed pretty slim, but, then again, he might as well look to be safe anyway.

He hitched his slepy to a pole, and though the equine nickered in anger at being constrained, Patrick was already walking around the back of the old building, back to the employee entrance at the back, a route he knew all too well. The garbage all around, most of which would eventually be scavenged through time and again until anything of even miniscule value was picked clean, was piled high against the back, and a couple barrels with never-ending fires burnt away at the bits that ended up in them instead of around. He noticed a few things, including an old vacuum cleaner that hadn't worked since the War of 2077, as well as the assorted scrap metal and other trash. As he walked by one of the burning barrels, he noticed a rather bright, white piece of paper on the ground, one only half charred from the burning barrel a few feet away. Maybe this is what he thought he would find? Patrick bent down, and gingerly took the paper, half expecting it to disintegrate. However, it was still strong enough for him to read.

…_RAMP will offer their assistance to suppress any resistance to your rule should you ask for it after the target is eliminated. Assiniboia will not interfere with your rule of the town, as long as we get transit and troop stationing rights and a 2.5% tribute per year. Thank you for your interest in our offer._

_ -Calvin McGregor_

_ Minister of the Interior, Dominion of Assiniboia_

Patrick glanced back at the letter, realizing this note was perhaps a two for one offer… getting to keep his money, and free Deer Wing. It was as if luck just fell into his hands at last!

The life of the second-in-command to The Boss of the Syndicate was one of the better gigs one could get. A lot of busting heads and not a bit of ass kissing took the manager of the Lucky Nines to the top of the food chain in Brandon.

He wasn't an educated man, but he knew how to operate one of those old RobCo computer terminals that the old world left behind (though, only after being shown what to do in the first place), and that put him a head above most of the other gangsters that composed the rank and file of The Syndicate.

He grinned as he looked at the casino floor he put together. Customers at the bar and restaurant in the corner were eating and drinking their hard earned pounds away, while the gamblers gained small fortunes, and lost larger ones. In the back corner, tucked behind everything, a dozen druggies were getting high on Pshyco, Med-X, Jet and all the other drugs on could find in the Wasteland, and which the few chemists that worked for the Syndicate could make. Over all, life was good for the runner of this particular establishment, which was only one of five in Brandon. This one was the money maker, and only the Boss's most trusted men got to work here.

As he glanced out the window, his smile faded. He saw that black slepy before, and he knew all too well who it belonged to.

"That fucker," he growled, "Patrick Morrison. I'm going to have his head."

He signaled to the gangsters casually watching over the casino and its patrons. In a moment, thirteen men were at attention, weapons ranging from shotguns to pistols, from brass knuckles to tire irons were all up, and following their superior out the door.

Patrick grinned as he walked back to Demon, who impatiently waited to be untied. Heck, at this point he was confident he could walk straight up to The Boss, and get everything dealt with…

"Hey! You son of a bitch Patrick!" some deep, gravelly voice shouted off to the side, making Patrick shudder. He looked over to the front of the casino, only to come eye to eye with his old boss. Well, that idea was dead.

Patrick was about to make Demon gallop as fast as he can when he realized that a whole mob of mobsters was around him, all with guns drawn.

"Thought you could hide, huh?" he sneered, motioning to the men around to seize Patrick. The young man sighed, and realized that even his brand new assault rifle would be useless against the ten or fifteen men around him.

Two men grabbed the reins to demon, and two others pulled Patrick off, and dragged him to the casino manager, in a better, less dusty black suit like all the other Syndicate men.

"Well, you should know…" the man snarled, before his left fist collided with Patrick's head, flinging him to the side, where one man righted him up again

"…that you picked…" a right, to the other side of the young man's head, whiplashing Patrick the other way.

"…the wrong man…" a left, this time to the stomach, making Patrick keel over into the fetal position.

"…to fucking steal from!" the gangster screamed out as he whipped out a 9mm pistol and aimed it at Patrick's head.

Patrick's eyes were full of stars, his head hammered painfully against his skull, but the moment of clarity that came when the pistol was cocked drove the anguish away. Adrenaline pushed the young man, and with a swift swing of his feet he knocked the gangster down, and rose up to reach for his 44. Magnum, and aimed it at the boss. In less than five seconds, the entire balance shifted.

The other gangsters, stunned for a moment, raised their own weapons up and aimed it at Patrick.

"Hold it you fuckers!" another voice barked out, making ice run down the back of the gangsters and Patrick. All eyes turned around to an immaculately dressed man in a white suit and hat, with sunglasses covering his eyes and two pistols on his hip, a cigar clamped between his teeth, riding his own slepy, this one a brown and white mare. Everyone lowered their weapons, realizing they were now in the presence of The Boss.

The was old, the almost white hair on his head and the groomed mustache he had signifying that, while the years were not kind to him: wrinkles, criss-crossed with scars from a thousand fights and a minor limp from a bullet to the upper leg. But despite all this, he was a man that could take on all the men here and, if not win, then take down nine of them.

He urged his slepy on, and walked right up to Patrick, and pulled the cigar from his mouth, and blew a smoke ring right into his face. Patrick barely flinched despite the sudden on rush of pain as weakness descended upon his body that even the adrenilline couldn't cure, and suppressed a cough, all to maintain at least a half-way decent front against this clearly angry man.

"What gives you the fucking right to stroll into my town, get cornered by ten of the best men I have, then kick the ass of one of my most trusted lieutenants, and still act like a god-damned hero?" he growled in a low voice.

Patrick swallowed deep. "I apologize for any problems I caused. I had no intention of staying in Brandon long, nor any inclination to upset the peace."

The manager managed to stagger up, holding his head where it impacted the earth. "That cheatin', thievin' son of a whore! I…" he managed to get out before The Boss flung a stare that would break glass to the man, making him shut up.

"So, what do you want then?"

Patrick smiled inward as the bastard he was employed to shrivel up like a leaf. "I used to work for that man, about three months ago. However, he refused to pay me my wage for a few weeks, and I had to resort to taking some of your money… as a loan, if you will, until I was paid. I apologize for that as well."

The Boss, though his eyes were shielded by the dark glasses, were undoubtedly glaring at Patrick. "I have every right to shoot you dead in the street right now," he muttered. "Accusing my subordinate of withholding pay… and then admitting to steal from me and The Syndicate… that takes balls, kid. Your either a God-damned good liar, or your telling the truth." He looked over to the man that tried to kill Patrick. "Now, I will ask this once. Is there any truth to what he said?"

"He fucking stole from me…us. I have no care as to why he did, but he did," the manager growled.

Patrick reached into his pocket, making some of the gangsters raise their guns in alarm, but relaxed when Patrick pulled out a piece of paper. "Also, I found this piece of paper near a burning bin near your lieutenant's operation. I think you might find it interesting."

The Boss snapped the paper from Patrick's hands, and read it over, his frown turning even deeper until he got to the bottom. He looked back to Patrick, and then to the Manager. "Any answer for this?"

"Lies! All lies! Why would I ever want to do this to you?" The manager began pleading, getting down to his hands and knees. "You are The Boss! A great man! A great leader! No sane man would ever go against you!"

"If you had no idea what was on this paper, you wouldn't be begging me for forgiveness. Well, you are fucking insane then." He looked to the other thugs all around. "Take him up to the Asylum, and I will deal with him later." The manager's face went white, because the old building on the north end of Brandon overlooking the rest of the city was more hell on earth than a mental asylum, a virtual prison to those that displeased The Boss. Four armed men grabbed the manager and led him away, their faces impassive.

The Boss looked back to Patrick, his frown now rather normal, and Patrick guessed that was the closest to a smile he would get. He leaned forward in his saddle. "Kid, keep your money. Hell, I'll give ya another thousand pounds. I knew that shit-head was more ambitious than smart, but at least you gave me an excuse." He looked back at the paper again. "Minister Calvin McGregor, eh? His great-great grandfather was the first Prime Minister of Assiniboia, and he himself is most likely next in line for the PM's chair. Ruthless bastard: I'd feel sorry for you Asses once he does come to power." Patrick barely flinched when the derogatory term for Assiniboians was thrown at him.

"But, at least another of the Minister's plots is foiled. That makes… oh, four or five in the past couple of years. He never seems to pick the right person to work with." The Boss pulled a lighter from his pocket, and burnt the rest of the note. "But I don't think coming here to stop a coup was what you wanted to do? What did you want?"

Patrick nodded, though that alone almost made him pass out, only the two thugs beside him prevented him from falling.

The Boss looked back, and grunted. "Alright, we will talk about it tomorrow." He turned to one of the Syndicate men. "Find him a nice room, all on me. Let him rest until tomorrow, then he can come see me when he is ready." The Boss turned his slepy around, but he turned back. "And if anything happens to him while you two are around, you will be following your old boss up the hill." With that threat, The Boss began trotting off, three other gangster's on horseback riding beside him.

Patrick was half walked, half carried to the Lucky Nines, past all the gamblers and drunks and thugs, most wondering why a dusty, injured twenty year old was being helped by two of the biggest thugs in the entire Syndicate. But as soon as they passed, everyone turned back to the tables they were playing at, and soon fortunes were being made and lost once again.

* * *

**Pip-Boy Model 3000A**

**Note 298: Assiniboia Money Lesson!**

To: All Citizens of Assiniboia

From: Assiniboia Department of the Treasury

Just as a notice to all merchants and traders operating in Assiniboia: the Dominion has established a perfectly viable currency, that of the Assiniboian Pound (symbol being £). Every pound is divided into 100 pence (symbol p), and, while barter is still allowed, we would highly recommend using Dominion currency for ease of transactions. Also, the Department of the Treasury will no longer accepet any bartering or other currencies (including caps, pop-tabs, tin lids, American Dollars, scrap metal, scrap electronics, or humans) for the payment of taxes, fees and fines. All taxes to be paid to Assiniboia must be in Pounds, unless prior negotiated with the Dept. of the Treasury.

As a reminder: all Assiniboian Pounds is backed by the Royal Bank of Winnipeg, which maintains the right to print and produce all of the Dominion's currency, and it is backed by our plentiful reserves in gold and other precious materials.

Should any merchants fail to head this warning, fines and legal actions may be taken.

As for Private citizens: in lieu of tax payment in Assiniboian dollars, your labor for two weeks out of the year is also acceptable, which can be either done in increments or all at once.

And remember: counterfitting any Assiniboian currency, either paper bills or coins, is a punishable offense! The Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police is very well equipped to detect any forgeries, and those in the possession of such forgeries will be investigated to the fullest extent of the law. Offenses range from 10 years in prison to execution. Remember that!

Thank you for your cooperation.

God Save Assiniboia and the Dominion!

-Daniel Hereford, MP, PC

Minister of Finance, Dominion of Assiniboia

January 17, 2118


	5. Chapter 5: Wish You Were Here

**Chapter Five: Wish You Were Here**

**May 12, 2218**

**Independent State of Brandon**

Patrick, clad in clean clothes, showered and shaved for the first time in a few days, walked purposely down the hallway flanked by two Syndicate members to meet with the leader of Brandon. It was nearly dinner time, Patrick having slept till the middle of the afternoon. But now that he was rested, he was deemed suitable to see The Boss in a more formal setting than in the middle of a dusty street after a brawl.

His two "escorts" stopped outside the wood doors that lead to The Boss's office, and one gave a short knock, but a loud, angry holler prevented them from entering or allowing Patrick in. Some murmuring could be heard inside but it was too low for Patrick to make any of it out. The door opened soon after, allowing a robed figure to leave. Patrick quickly eyed the man under the hood, who, despite the rough cloth, looked very clean, and had an air of power and confidence that was surprising for a man who looked like he was a beggar, or a member of the saintly Church of the North. What was he doing meeting with The Boss, Patrick wondered as the robed man looked at Patrick back. He gave a thin simile, politely excused himself and was escorted away. One of the guards knocked again before opening it, and allowing Patrick to walk in.

The leader of The Syndicate in Brandon had the trappings of luxury all around him, objects with no use for their owner but to look nice. A television set, the fission battery that powered it long removed (though nothing would have been on it either way, unless it could pick up something from one of the Vaults), framed by paintings that were salvaged from the homes of the old Brandon elite, as well as gold and silver trinkets that filled shelves and coffee tables. Most of the other electronics, including radios and appliances did work, as the soft melody of some song from the Assiniboian Broadcasting Corporation filling the room, and the coffee maker hummed quietly in the corner ready to brew the strong black liquid into a coffee pot. Where The Boss got the coffee beans was a surprise, because Patrick highly doubted that they were fresh, and whatever supplies must have existed would be long gone now.

The Boss, still frowning and still wearing sunglasses on, sat at a table with food laid out into a multi course meal. He wiped his face with a napkin, and waved Patrick to another spot that was set near him.

"You most likely haven't eaten, so I'll feed ya," he said, his voice friendlier than any time Patrick heard before. "The can of worms you opened with that note turned into an entire barrel. My lieutenant was more busy organizing my overthrow than running a business, but I always thought it was more incompetence or a slow season. While the operations he controlled were still turning a profit, he was skimming a huge amount off the top, using it to pay off quite a few of my men." He stuck a piece of slepy steak into his mouth, and chewed the tough meat for a moment.

"Who was the man that came out before me?" Patrick asked.

"None of your damn business," The Boss replied, ending the discussion before it started.

Patrick sat at the table, with a steak in front of him as well. The young adventurer cut into it, and was surprised to see it was still warm. "Well, thank you for your hospitality."

The Boss waved the thanks away. "No need to butter me up kid. What else are you here in Brandon for?"

Patrick swallowed his piece of food, and reached into a pocket and pulled a piece of paper out, and handed it to the Boss. "I was down south by the Rezz, and I was charged by the Chief to find his grand-daughter Deer Wing. This paper seems to indicate that she ended up here in Brandon."

The Boss dropped his fork on the plate, anger suddenly clouding his face. "You want that bitch?"

Patrick looked up to him. "I… uh… maybe?"

"That Indian was fucking up my business. I have business dealings in the Rezz, and she was trying to screw that up, making my booze and drugs worthless with her high and mighty preaching." The Boss shoveled another piece of steak in his mouth. "Training to be the 'mystic' of that tribe, and her words would be enough to fuck me up, even if she isn't ready to lead that group of reactionary children. Those Indians think that they can go back into the past, but they cannot. You would have seen them, trying to wear leather skins and hunt with spears and shit. They refuse to step into the present, the future! The Syndicate is the future!" By now, The Boss's face was beet red, though his voice barely rose higher than normal, which made the outburst even scarier than what one would have expected.

Patrick winced from the blowout, but The Boss, as quickly as his temper flared, seemed to have calmed down, and after a moment returned to eating. "If it was anyone else, I would have shrugged and let you take them. However, she is different. She isn't easily cowed or intimidated, and the only way to shut her up is to keep her locked up. Won't look good to just kill her, especially in the Rezz, because then the red-coated bastards would investigate. No, she had to come here. Locked away, never the see the light of day again"

The young man looked over at The Boss, who was taking another bit of his food. "Well, you are a businessman," Patrick started. "What would be worth to you for letting Deer Wing go?" Patrick asked.

The Boss eyebrows furrowed. "I just told you, it's not happening. Drop it."

Patrick dropped it, and resumed eating his own food. The rest of the meal passed in silence without even small talk: just the sound of cutlery on porcelain and the muffled shouts, screams and hollers from outside.

After the awkwardness lasted for a few minutes, the older man at last looked over to Patrick. "So, what the hell are you actually doing?"

Patrick swallowed the peace of meat in his mouth before looking back. "I thought it was best to get away from home after those Syndicate men tried to kill me."

"Now, why were they trying to kill you?" The Boss asked suspiciously.

Patrick cut into the steak again, but didn't eat it right away. "When I worked here, my old manager, now in the Asylum, tried to withhold my pay, like I told you sooner. Brandon is a very expensive place to stay for those who work here, and since the manager wasn't paying me, I was going to be either starving or homeless. Had I told anyone about it, I would be bruised, starving and homeless."

The Boss leaned back in his chair as he finished, and belched out loud. "I knew that son of a bitch would do stuff like that, so I can't blame you for that. So keep your money and consider the debt paid." He looked back at Patrick. "Not the best food, but better than most of the crap you can find, eh?"

Patrick nodded, having eaten nothing but irradiated tinned food for the past few days. "And, again, thanks for feeding me."

The Boss waved dismissively, which Patrick took to mean that he was excused. He rose, placed the leather Brahman hat on his head, and walked out the door. The Syndicate guards that had led him to The Boss remained to guard their leader's sanctuary, not offering to guide Patrick back. The young adventurer was sure he could find his way back anyway.

As he turned the corner, a man dressed in an outfit of a worker at the casino was standing outside Patrick's room, which made him pause for a moment. Patrick had no idea who this guy was, because there were some Syndicate men who were "plainclothes" gangsters to enforce The Boss' will. Was he one of these men?

The worker looked up, and straightened himself while waving Patrick over, which Patrick did cautiously. As he approached, he could see that the worker was nervous, looking around for something to leap out and try to grab him, take him away.

"Good, I knew you would be coming back from your meeting. I think I can help you with freeing Deer Wing."

Patrick started at that, before eying the man suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"Call me Kirk," he said, "but I won't tell you more unless we go to your room."

Patrick nodded. "Alright, let's talk."

Patrick opened the door and walked in, Patrick following behind. When they were both in, Patrick quickly spun around and locked the door.

"Alright, I'm going to make this quick. "Deer Wing is at the Asylum, in solitary confinement. I'm not sure where she is, but she is in there. There is a way to get in through the wall near the river, in a place where patrols normally don't go. You should be able to get into the compound easily enough, though the building may be tougher." Kirk pulled out some bobby pins and a screwdriver, and handed them to Patrick. "However, there is a door near that corner, and you should be able to pick the lock. As far as I know, no one patrols that hallway, but beyond that you will start running into guards."

Patrick uneasily took the pins and screwdriver, and slipped them into his backpack. "Why are you telling me this?"

Kirk shuffled his feet. "Deer Wing was doing a lot more than the Boss realized: she was leading an underground movement at the Rezz to attack his increasing hold on the region. She only vocally attacked The Boss to distract him. However, she went too far, and was too careless, and allowed herself to be caught a few days ago. However, there is a group here in Brandon that wants to overthrow The Syndicate and help the people in this town." Kirk leaned in closer, whispering so low that Patrick could just make it out. "And we will help you get her out."

"How?"

Kirk pulled back, and lifted a finger to his lips. "Can't tell you, it's a secret."

Patrick sighed. "Alright, I'll play along. What time should I go?"

"Before midnight. The guards change a few minutes before hand, so that should give you a few moments to sneak in that you normally wouldn't." He reached into his pocket one more time. "When you get to the door, light this flare, and we will provide some help to rescue her.

Patrick took the flare, and back up to Kirk. There was something in his eyes that showed that what he was telling Patrick was the truth, that he was risking his life to get Patrick involved into this. Patrick sighed, and pulled out his .44. "Better clean this then, just in case."

Kirk smiled. "Just in case."

Three hours later, his revolver and assault rifle cleaned, loaded and ready, Patrick walked out of the casino, and out to his slepy. Having been given some hay and water, Demon was rather content, and snorted in annoyance when Patrick swung up on its back after putting the saddle on.

"Oh, come on. You don't like to stop, but when you do, you don't want to go," Patrick complained, at which the eight-legged equine shook it's head in agreement.

"You lazy bugger," Patrick grinned, and spurred Demon to go, which he did despite the complaints.

It only took ten or so minutes, winding through the masses that huddled in Brandon to get to the East side of Brandon, where the imposing brick structure of the Asylum stood looking over the town like some fortress which, since The Syndicate took over, it had been turned into. Massive walls of old cars and trucks stacked on top of each other, along with rubble from long collapsed buildings to fill in the gaps, made an imposing structure.

Patrick continued on until he reached the Assiniboine River bank past an since depilated ruin of a small suburb, where only the husks of old houses stood, and much of the rubble you normally would have seen having been washed away by the massive floods that often inundated Assiniboia in the Spring and Summer, and hopped of the slepy again, tying it to the tree. "Alright, this shouldn't take long. Then we get out of here, and go back to the Rezz." Demon seemed to have ignored Patrick, turning around and going off to nibble at the short, tough grass that grew along the river. The human rolled his eyes, and began to walk up the hill; crouching as low as he could to avoid detection, the revolver on his hip and the rifle in his hands should he need it.

As he walked up past the ruins to the hill where the Asylum was nestled on, he noticed that what Kirk seemed to be right: no footprints were around the wall, partially because it was a rather wet and muddy area. Patrick chuckled softly, knowing that most Syndies were rather particular about their looks, to the detriment of being thorough if need be.

When he arrived at the wall which was still a ways from the building itself, he noticed one piece or corrugated iron leaning up against the wall, and, looking around it, Patrick could see that it covered a hole that was just the size of a person to squeeze through. Carefully working the heavy metal off to the side, Patrick eased himself through the opening, and emerged on the other side of the wall.

One thing that the rebel at the casino didn't tell Patrick, and one thing he should have remembered, was that this area was more than a prison… it was also The Syndicate's main barracks for those not associated with the casino's, bars and drug dens. In front of Patrick was row upon row of shanty houses, some with fires outside, along with roaring laughter, the occasional bottle breaking, and loud curses of thugs at rest. Patrick winced as he suddenly remembered, and he took a deep breath, hoping to steady his now shaking body.

After a few moments, Patrick looked up again, and slowly, cautiously made his way up the hill to the Asylum itself. The loudness of the Syndies who were clearly engaging in R&R was enough to mask the intruder as he walked up the hill past the men milling around.

Suddenly, from around the corner a gangster walked out, almost directly in front of Patrick. He stopped, and froze like a human statue, as the Syndicate member carelessly walked by, until, after a few more steps, he stopped, and unzipped his zipper, and began to urinate over the ground. Patrick remained frozen, until, at long last the gangster finished, pulled up his pants and turned around, walking back to the campfire whence he came.

The next few moments seemed to take hours as Patrick crept closer to the massive building on the top of the hill, until he at last reached the corner of the building. The section of the building he reached was a slightly newer part than the almost 300 year old Asylum itself, having only been built just before the Great War. But, as Kirk stated, there was the door. He looked around, and was sure that no one was around, and pulled out the flare. With a simple pull, the red stick seemed to light up like the sun, and nearly blinded Patrick, who flinched away from the sizzling, intensely bright stick.

A moment after he pulled the flare, a shout on the other side of the wall, and then all hell broke loose. Explosions rippled through the shanty houses below and the images of black clad men began scrambling around, followed by even more gunfire and shouts.

Patrick turned around, realizing that was what Kirk had been promising. He quickly pulled out the screwdriver and a bobby pin, and set to work trying to open the door. He knew a little bit about it, something that he was taught a few years before, but lock picking was something he never thought he would need to do. But, here he was, trying to get the door to open up…

As he focused on the handle, the door suddenly swung open, and hastily dressed Syndicate member stepping out, 10mm in hand.

"What the fuck?" he shouted, looking at Patrick. "Who are you?"

"Shit!" Patrick shouted, leaping up, and pulling out his .44 Magnum. The gangster shot at Patrick, the bullet hitting his left shoulder, making the younger man scream. Patrick's first shot went wide, as he went down, but through the searing pain, Patrick took better aim and shot the gangster three times, all three in the torso. The black suited man looked down, his white shirt quickly turning red in the light provided from the open door and the rapidly dying flare.

"You fuc…" the gangster gasped, blood dripping from his mouth, until he fell over. Patrick, his shoulder still in agonizing pain, got back on his feet, and walked over to the thug. He leaned over, and grabbed the 10mm, and the spare rounds that he would no longer need. As he searched the other pocket, alongside a few Assiniboian Pounds, his finger pricked against a needle. Patrick winced again, but managed to get his hand on the Stimpack inside. The wounded man grinned as he pulled it out and jabbed it into his arm, and within moments the healing chemicals in it quickly went to work, and the pain went away. The blood clotted up, and the bleeding slowed and eventually stopped, which was one of the beauties and miracles of Old World technology at work. Healed, Patrick reloaded the .44 and prepared to find Deer Wing.

The halls were intensely quiet, even though Patrick knew that a pitched battle was occurring outside. That just made his job harder, because any person that came through now would notice him, and that person was most likely going to be armed, and with a twitchy trigger finger…

Patrick rounded a corner, to see a figure disappear around another corner. However, it wasn't in black, but rather leather. He lifted up the .44 Magnum, and continued down the hall, his footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway.

He quickly arrived at the opposite end of the hall and, gun out, he jumped out, but nothing was there. Patrick paused, because he was sure he saw something. He took a few steps down the hall past dark, empty doorways, looking of the mystery person that wasn't there.

"Don't move," a quiet, determined female voice warned, freezing Patrick in his tracks. A string being pulled taught accented the order.

"Turn around," she ordered, and Patrick slowly turned around to come face to face with bow and arrow being held ready, the rest of the figure in shadow. Patrick slowly raised his hands, his .44 still held in his right hand.

"Who are you?" the ghostly voice demanded, still holding the bow.

"I'm Patrick Morrison, and I'm here to find a girl named Deer Wing. Her grandfather, Chief Wolf-Who-Stands-Tall, sent me here to find her."

The bow and arrow still at the ready, a figure emerged from the shadow, a beautiful, young Indian girl with bruises all over her body, and fear in her eyes.

"I am Deer Wing," she said softly, the bow and arrow still ready to be launched. "I knew my grandfather would find someone to find me, but I didn't expect an Assiniboian would care.

Patrick smiled, and she lowered the bow and arrow. "Well, it's a debt I had to pay for being caught trespassing on the Rezz," the man explained.

"Humph," she replied, brushing a hand through her long, unkempt hair. "But we better get out of here."

Patrick nodded, and turned to go the way he came. "I have a slepy, and I can take you back to the Rezz a sap," he answered, offering his hand.

Deer Wing didn't take his hand, but nodded. "Fine, but don't think I'm particularly inclined to ride with you just because you rescued me."

Patrick shrugged. "Well, unfortunately I don't have the money to rent another slepy, so it might be the best you got.

He didn't pay attention to any further complaints, instead trying to retrace his steps through the massive building, one of the largest in Brandon.

After a few false tries, he finally found the store room he came from, and grinned as he noticed the door was still open. He stepped out, and was promptly tackled to the ground by a massive man of hard muscle.

"You fucking asshole!" a familiar voice screamed, pummeling Patrick. "Get me fucking locked up, will you?" his old manager said, trying to make up for being demoted and tossed into the Asylum. "I will make you pay…"

A nearly silent _thunk _impacted the massive bulk above Patrick, making the manager shudder and stop, gasping slightly. Another _thunk, _and the eyes hell bent on destruction then rolled up into their sockets, and he fell off to the side, two arrows in his back.

Deer Wing had a third loaded and ready, aimed at the man that tried to neat Patrick into a pulp, but it wasn't necessary. She unstrung the arrow, and knelt down to Patrick. "You okay?"

Patrick nodded, and smiled. It quickly left when another figure emerged from the shadows and tried to grab Deer Wing.

"You bitch!" the deep, throaty voice of The Boss bellowed, struggling to hold the squirming girl. Patrick got up, the .44 out of arms reach, but his Assault Rifle in hand.

"Let her go!" Patrick shouted, aiming the rifle.

"I will gut you after I kill this thing," The Boss promised, swinging a heavy fist at Patrick, who ducked. "Trying to fucking destroy me after I helped you?" Trying to deck Patrick and hold Deer Wing was too much, but the bastard tried

Patrick took the moment and aimed the gun, but the two struggling figures were moving too much for a clean shot. However, at one moment, Deer Wing smiled, and using her foot, she kicked behind her right into The Boss' groin. The tough old man let go, the forceful kick enough to knock the air out of any man. The lithe Indian girl managed to get away from his clutches, and Patrick fired a three round burst right into the man's head, making it explode in gory fireworks. The rest of The Boss, momentarily stunned, then fell over, twitching a moment until it was still.

Patrick and Deer Wing, blood splattered from killing two men twice their size, shakily looked at each other, and grinned

"Well, I think that's enough excitement for today," the Assiniboian said, taking the moment to grab his .44, and quickly frisking both bodies for useful materials. Two stimpacks, three 9mm magazines with the pistol for said ammunition, and a sharp knife were all taken.

Deer Wing took the knife, and frowned. "Dull, barely enough to cut… but it should be useful," she proclaimed, putting it in her belt. Patrick kept the firearms.

"Let's get out of here," Patrick said, and the two walked down to the river pas the bloody corpses and wounded survivors of the grenade attack earlier, as bright red flames licked at different buildings and thick smoke rose over the city. Even if the Syndicate managed to beat the rebels, they were now leaderless. And, after all Patrick had gone through, he was pleased of that.

* * *

**Pip-Boy 3000A Note 38**

**Firearms and Assiniboia**

To: RAMP Officers Outside the Greater Winnipeg Region

From: Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police External Relations Department

Due to increasing calls to this office of irregular rules for gun seizures after PorLaPra had joined the Dominion, the Department would like to take this chance to make it clear the position that the Dominion will take when it comes to Firearms. First, those living outside of towns are allowed to hold enough guns for every member of the family over the age of 12 due to animal and raider attacks, as long as these weapons are safely stored in secure boxes when not in use. Ammunition for these weapons is unlimited. For those living in urban settlements under a population of 500, the same rules apply. For towns between 500 and 5000, only two weapons per household are allowed, and enough ammunition for five full reloads at one time. For towns over 5000, only one weapon is allowed in the household, with enough ammo for five reloads. Automatic and semi-automatic weapons, including, but not limited to Assault rifles, submachine gun, machine guns and other military grade weapons are illegal under all circumstances, but can be kept in a local jurisdiction for militia purposes. If more weapons or ammunition are found, either a permit must be issued, or the weapon will be confiscated. If the owners will not cooperate, then they are to be fined up to £5000, and/or sentenced to 30 days in jail. Merchants must insure that when they sell weapons that it abides by these rules.

This should clear most of it up. If you have any concerns, please direct them through the RAMP External Relations Department. More serious cases can be sent to the Minister of Public Safety, but complaints sent there may be ignored.

RAMP Commissioner Gordon Sinclair, Winnipeg

July 18, 2110


	6. Chapter 6: Spring Forth, America

Chapter Six: Spring Forth, America

May 18, 2218

East of Brandon

Through the night the short bursts of gunfire, muffled roars of explosions and the soft crackle of fire filled the streets of Brandon. Rioters looted casinos and stores, while gamblers and drug addicts, who had only come to Brandon to fill their vices and empty their pockets, cowered in terror, fled the city, or took the opportunity to descend into the depravity that filled the lawless town. Not a single black coated, sunglasses wearing tough was to be seen.

Three lone figures camped near the freezing cold Assiniboine River while the city that was on either side of it tore itself apart. The eight-legged equine grazed on the short grasses, occasionally looked up at the burning town. Demon didn't quite understanding what was going on, but sure he was positive he didn't want to be in it (as the screams of other slepy's ringed out in the gunfire, echoing across the evening sky) be he was sure he was safe this far away from it.

Patrick stayed awake the whole night, sipping from a bottle of whiskey while he carefully cleaned and maintained his assault rifle over and over again as the hours dragged on. Part of him was glad that his old home was going in flames, the one that was bitter over being run out for a crime he was forced to commit because of a bigger conspiracy that he wasn't even involved with. The other part of him, the one that enjoyed the comforts that Brandon offered, good food, a nice bed and companionship if necessary, looked at the sight with sorrow.

Melita, his birthplace, never did work for him after living the rough and fast paced life of Brandon. Heck, the Syndicate collection team that came after him was the best thing that ever happened during his stay in Melita, and gave him a good enough excuse to leave.

The young man was so lost in thought that he didn't hear the rustling bushes nearby, and was only snapped out of his revere after a twig snapped under foot.

Patrick spun around, his assault rifle ready to attack the intruder. He shadowy figure halted, his arms upraised.

"Who are you?" Patrick called out, glancing over to notice that Deer Wing was still sound asleep.

"A friend," the figure replied. Before Patrick could say anything, he pulled a pistol, one of the common 10mm weapons, and tossed it to the ground in between himself and the man with the assault rifle. Even if he kept it, they both knew that the rifle would have overwhelmed the pistol holder.

"Alright, come on closer," Patrick said, lowering his rifle. The figure shuffled forward, the dying embers of the fire at last revealing the man to the camper.

He was tall, with dirty blond hair cut short on a handsome face, and only the traces of whiskers that would have cropped up from a journey that was several days long. However, it wasn't the facial features that demanded attention, but the dull red jacket, for surely covering a riot suit that would protect him, along with the light brown, wide brimmed hat in hand and the empty holster on the wide "Sam Browne" belt.

"Oh," Patrick said in surprise, realizing that a Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police officer was the man he was holding up. "I'm sorry for that…"

The officer chuckled. "No worries, though I was worried when you didn't notice me sooner. Mind if I join you?"

Patrick nodded, waving the officer to sit with him. "So, who are you and what are you doing here?"

The RAMP officer reached down and picked up his pistol on the ground, placing it back in his holster. "Cute girl you got sleeping over there. Sister?"

"Friend," Patrick replied.

"Ah. Well, I'm Captain Gregory Michaels, RAMP Regular Service. I'm the officer in charge of the Carberry Detachment, and I was ordered to investigate the rumors of what is going on in Brandon," he replied. "You wouldn't happen to know, would you? And you might as well give me your name."

Patrick stifled a laugh, making the police/paramilitary officer look at him funny. "I'm sorry. I'm Patrick Morrison, and sure I can tell you about Brandon. Hell, I was part of it." For the next few minutes, Patrick explained what had happened, from him leaving Melita to freeing Deer Wing.

The officer whistled as Patrick finished. "Quite a story you have there. I'm sure the ABC would be happy to make that into a radio play."

Patrick scoffed, stirring the fire in front of him. While the Assiniboian Broadcasting Corporation was the biggest provider of media in Assiniboia, they were known for forcing locally produced programs onto the populace, most of which weren't that popular, and most ended soon after the began, with surviving pre-war American and to a lesser extent Canadian programs much more popular.

Captain Michaels shuffled in his seat. "Well, that answers that question. If you don't mind, I'm going to report that in." Before Patrick could answer, the RAMP officer was up and walking back into the night, turning on a portable radio and quietly talking into it. After a few minutes, the officer returned, his face stern.

"Well, I have news… but I don't know if you will like it." Captain Michaels said, standing over Patrick.

The young man looked up, recognizing the look on the police officers face, one they adopted the moment they had news that ranged from mediocre to bad, though more often than not the later.

"The news was relayed back to Winnipeg, and they accepted that. However, when I told them about you, they said that you were wanted for the murder of four men in Melita."

Patrick winced. "Well, shit. I was hoping to get away from that."

Captain Michaels raised a hand, stopping Patrick. "However, they also said that, in light of what you have done in Brandon, and the fact that they were members of the Syndicate, an illegal organization in the Dominion, and you were acting in self-defense, they could most likely get you a pardon. I will have to wait until a larger force is sent before they will let me know if you got the pardon or not.

Patrick sighed. "Well, I guess that is the best I can hope for." The officer shrugged his shoulders in reply.

It was the middle of the next day before a fast moving boat, flying the flag of Assiniboia –that of a "Red Ensign" with the Union Jack of long dead Britain in one corner, and the coat of arms of Assiniboia: a buffalo trampling an eagle underneath a branch of three maple leafs – made its way down the river. By then, the young Indian girl was awake, and Captain Michaels was actively trying but failing to woo Deer Wing.

"Listen, I'm sure you can find lots of girls of my heritage in Winnipeg that will sell themselves for you or anyone else. But I'm not one of them, and you can just drop it," she at last blurted out after several more subtle hints either went over Michaels' head, or he thought was part of the game. He slunk off, spending the rest of the morning cleaning his gun instead.

Patrick chuckled as the Mountie left, knowing that serving in a small town, even one close to the old hive of scum and villainy that was Brandon, wouldn't give much chance for a young man to deal with his urges, unless he wanted to isolate the town, tarnish the RAMP, or face an angry dad or husband with shotguns.

But as the large boat approached closer, Patrick was stunned to see three men in metal suits standing up front.

"Who the hell are they?" Patrick queried to Captain Michaels.

The RAMP officer cringed slightly as he caught sight of them. "Guys in power armor, which means one of two things. Either they are normal Assiniboian Army in salvaged power armor from Fort Headingly, or Enclave."

"Enclave?" Patrick asked, curious as to their name.

The RAMP officer winced again. "Shit… that was something I was told about with the express purpose to not let regular Assiniboian's know." He sighed. "Well, since they are here, I'll tell you: they are folks from a special Vault down south, descendants of powerful guys, like congressmen and government officials, businessmen and military leaders, who locked themselves away before the Great War. Why? I don't know. All I was told was that a few months ago, they emerged, and headed straight for Winnipeg. What happened next, I don't know. All I was told was to keep an eye out in case strange newcomers came by our towns trying to get us to do something."

Patrick looked back, noticed that they all had a white star, which looked to be slightly older, and freshly painted red maple leaf, on the front of the metal suits. The suits themselves were massive, turning them into mechanical giants, towering a good foot and a half or two over the other men on the boat. The helmets didn't help their image, making them appear more fearsome, as only a large eyed, eternally scowling face could do. The weapons, in this case two miniguns and a missile launcher were also intimidating.

Deer Wing, more concerned with cleaning up lunch, looked up to see what the two men were looking at and gasped herself. "Devil spirits!"

The boat turned toward the group, cutting power enough to just glide into the rocky bank, at which point the three power armored "devil spirits" jumped out and held their weapons at the ready.

"Stand down!" a harsh, authoritative voice barked out, wearing a grey uniform with a gold eagle on the shoulder boards, and a peaked cap with the symbol of the old United States on it. "I will tolerate no fuck ups right now!"

"Yes sir," the three called, two male and one female voice, muffled by the metal. However, they did not relax, only aimed their weapons not at the three people, but into the wilderness around them.

The officer that barked orders jumped off right after, followed by half a dozen red-coated RAMP officer, all with semi-automatic rifles. However, as Patrick noticed, the Mounties were keeping their distance from the power armored brutes.

"Are you Captain Michaels?" the officer asked, walking over the rocks up the bank.

"Yes I am. May I ask who you are?"

The officer stopped, clicking his black polished boots together and giving a crisp salute. "Colonel Gabriel Granger, Enclave Armed Forces." He paused for a moment. "Or, rather, the unified Enclave-Assiniboian Armed Forces. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a military force to unload."

Michaels was clearly very confused and was about to speak, but couldn't ask any questions he had before Colonel Granger quickly started barking more orders at the power armored troops that must have been the Enclave military, as well as the ragtag band composed of an assortment of RAMP police officers-turned-soldiers, still in there red uniforms like Captain Michaels, and regular Royal Assiniboian Army fighters in an intricate collection of grey, green, brown and black that was the official camouflage. A couple robots also came off, a big metal sphere hovering above the ground with a plasma gun and flamethrower on two of the three mechanical arms under it. Like the Enclave metal men, an older white star was joined with a red maple leaf very recently painted on the robots.

While the soldiers were unloading equipment and supplies, the officer stiffly walked over toward Patrick, and, despite being the same height as the Assiniboian, was clearly looking down on him. "May I ask why you are currently here? And why is there an Indian here as well?"

Patrick shuffled, his fingers playing with the leather holster his .44 magnum was tucked in as Colonel Granger walked up. "I was with the Mountie who found me leaving Brandon after the gangsters were overthrown, and the Captain asked us to stick around. As for the girl, the fight in Brandon started because of Deer Wing here, with the rebels working to free her."

The colonel sniffed. "For the short amount of time I've been here, I've come to find you normal Assiniboians seem to get yourselves into a lot of trouble. Of course, your army is small and you rely on the police for major efforts." He paused for a moment. "Not that it is a bad thing."

Patrick shuffled on his feet as the military man talked. "So, what did you want to talk to me about?"

"I was going to order you away, but I think you can be helpful to me. The Assiniboian government is not inclined to allow another city-state to rise in Brandon, and that is why we have been sent here. Since you have been in Brandon, I think you can be used to guide us." The simple way that Colonel Granger stated this fact made it seem more like an order than a suggestion.

"If I refuse?" Patrick inquired.

The colonel shrugged. "If you aren't useful, we have ways to make you disappear. The Enclave is still a secret to most Assiniboians, and since you know a bit too much, we cannot allow you to let others know."

Patrick's outward appearance was calm, though he was now breaking into a cold sweat. The sheer matter-of-factness in the way that Granger said it made it clear that he would make Patrick vanish, with not a single trace. "Alright, I'll go along with you for now."

The colonel's face cracked a smile, which until that moment seemed very foreign to him. "Very good. We move out in 20 minutes."

Patrick watched as the officer walked away back to the men, and then fell heavily on the ground. He breathed heavily, realizing what exactly just transpired, and how close he was to losing his life. Patrick had no idea how long he sat there before Captain Michaels returned.

"Good news! The Dominion has seen fit to grant you a pardon for the death of the Syndie men in Melita," he smiled. "No trial, no jury, no executioner."

Patrick looked up, and back down, his eyes still wide. "Well, that makes two close calls today."

The RAMP officer was confused at the young man's statement, but did not ask any further questions.

The ragtag band of twenty five some soldiers, robots and civilians that made their way into Brandon was being led by a power armored soldier with a massive, fierce looking Gatling gun, beside whom was Patrick, his Brahmin-hide hat shielding him from the blazing hot sun, holding his assault rifle in a ready position. Deer Wing, with both her bow and a sharp knife on her hip, walked a couple paces behind Patrick, much to the Enclave officers dismay. Having made the deal with the colonel, Patrick was now subject to a guard, though the young Assiniboian had to ask if it was either to protect him from dangers until the armed force was in Brandon, or to make sure that he didn't run away before fulfilling his duty.

As they reached the outskirts, a strange calm seemed to have come over Brandon. The gunshots and explosions that rocked the city for the past couple of days had dropped to almost nothing. Patrick had no idea if it was because the people were mostly dead, or if some faction had actually come to control the city.

"Looks like the people are scared," the power armored man, muffled by his metal armor, remarked. "Let them be scared, so long as they submit."

The power armored man barely finished mentioning that when a huge blue burst of light came, making the soldier freeze in place as if turned to a stone statue, and fell over. However, the man inside continued to scream, begging for help to get himself out of the trap his mighty suit of metal protection and weaponry had become.

"Pulse mines!" a RAMP sergeant shouted, moments before gun shots, ranging from pistols, shotguns, hunting rifles, grenades, submachine guns and machine guns. The armed column feel apart, the RAMP and Assiniboian Army soldiers fleeing for cover, while the two remaining Enclave fighters, one with the remaining Gatling gun, the other with a missile launcher, began to fire. The hundreds of bullets that the miniguns put out cut down three black coated men in hats and sunglasses in short order, before the ammo ran out. In the moment that he had to reload was just long enough for three grenades to blow the man to pieces, flesh and steel flying together, bonded in life and now death.

Patrick had ducked behind an old, rusted car, one that hadn't moved since before the Great War, and began to fire his assault rifle at those firing on his group. Deer Wing, still clinging to her archery equipment, ducked down beside him.

"Syndies!" he shouted above the roar of a missile being fired by the last Enclave soldier still standing. The two robots, Mister Gutsy's as Patrick found out they were called, charged forward, their mechanical voices blaring Anti-Communist propaganda (though Patrick, nor anyone else he talked to, knew exactly what a "Communist" was), but despite the flamethrowers and plasma guns, one exploded, and another malfunctioned and fell to the ground, still trying to get at the enemy

"I thought they were done," Deer Wing shouted back. "The Boss is dead!"

Patrick leaped up, and fired a three round burst, making a Syndicate man leap down behind a pile of rubble. "Well, they got a new leader, I'm sure." Deer Wing said nothing, but leapt up and loosed her bow, the arrow slicing quietly through the skull of the Syndie she was aiming at, though the blood curdling shriek that followed was anything but.

The RAMP and Army men that were not mowed down in the first surprise were now using their service rifles, dependable guns firing 5.56 caliber ammo, named officially as the AM76 but based off a pre-war American weapon. The military weapons quickly evened the odds, as the hodge-podge of weapons that the Syndicate gangsters had was no match for the combined firepower of 15 Assiniboian guns managed to pin down, and slowly advance against the Syndicate. Patrick and Deer Wing on one side of the street they were pinned down on, and the Enclave solider who had ditched his missile launcher and grabbed one of the unattended Gatling Guns, and used it to keep the Syndicate's down while the Assiniboians in the center tried to push forward.

The advance was slow, and the casualties were excessive for the number of fighters there were.

Captain Michaels, his service rifle against his chest half jumped, half fell beside Patrick. "We aren't going anywhere! We should pull back."

Patrick was about to agree when a loud powering up sound echoed through the narrow street before a bright, white-blue streak of lightning arched across the group of Assiniboian soldiers, and fried the black coated man it was aimed at. The smell of burnt flesh filled the alley, and gunfire even slackened off slightly. Another steak of lightning zapped another Syndicate gangster, and it was enough to force the Syndicate's to break, and begin to flee.

The RAMP and Army soldiers charged forward with a cheer, and managed to kill the majority of the black coated gangsters, capturing only a couple who managed to surrender themselves. Patrick and Deer wing stood up from behind their automotive shelter, and looked backwards to see another power armored soldier, also with the star and maple leaf on the front. However, the gun he held was much different than anything the other Enclave soldiers had: a three pronged weapon, with a miniature fission generator attached to the end of it, that looked very much like a rocket launcher, but clearly wasn't one.

"What the hell is that?" Patrick asked.

The other Enclave soldier heard Patrick, and shouted back. "It's Colonel Granger's personal weapon, a Tesla Cannon which he dubbed 'The Red Alert.' He has a particular affinity for electricity, and it seems to fit him well."

Patrick nodded admiringly. "It does its job very well then."

Deer Wing shook her head. "Why do you wish to use Electricity to fight? Bullets and explosives are bad enough, but why harness one of the most destructive forces of nature for your own use?"

Patrick turned to the Indian girl. "Unfortunately, war fighting didn't end with bone, rock and wood. That is why the world is a wasteland now, because everyone must either have a stronger weapon than another, or have the same weapon to maintain their power."

Deer Wing nodded, putting her bow on her back. "Exactly. Had we stopped with swords, bows and arrows, then the War of 2077 never would have happened."

"It happened though. We have to live with it," Patrick replied, the adrenaline of the moment at last pettering out, and exhaustion setting in.

Before he could rest, the metal clank of moving power armor distracted him. The young man looked up to see Colonel Granger, without his helmet and his weapon slung on his back.

"Very impressive work, Patrick," the officer replied, still speaking down, but with a hint of acceptance. "You are a very good fighter, as is the girl with you. If the Enclave, or even Assiniboia had more people like you two, then you could control the world."

"The world of radiation, mutation and misery, started by men that think like you?" Deer Wing, still in her ranting mode, argued back.

Colonel Granger cocked an eyebrow at Deer Wing. "What do you mean?"

"You imperialistic, war hungry, blood thirsty tyrants, with your weapons of violence and science, suddenly appearing and trying to worm your way into Assiniboia?"

Gabriel Granger's eyebrow was still raised, before he lowered it, his face still calm. "You make good arguments, young Indian. I will admit, Old World America wasn't as great as it could have been, turning away from the democracy that made us great due to the pressures of war and resource depletion. Annexing Canada was perhaps a bit much, but it is the past. The Enclave, the remnants of Old America, wish to make it up to Assiniboia, the one part of Canada that is left. That is why we have come to work with Assiniboia."

Deer Wing looked like she still wanted to argue, but Granger had already turned his attention back to Patrick. "Anyway, the Syndicates are practically broken in Brandon, and we are preparing to welcome Brandon into the Dominion. Now, I understand that you don't want to do anything for me, and my rather harsh words earlier may have put you off of it. However, Assiniboia still needs help, and I think you can assist. I would like you to meet you back in Winnipeg as soon as possible, where we can discuss things more with both the government of Assiniboia and the Enclave leadership. Are you interested?"

Patrick was stunned. Not only was the man who before threatened to kill him if he didn't cooperate now asking for help, but for Assiniboia. "Why me?"

"You have very unique talents, and you aren't associated with any of the structures inside Assiniboia, which gives you to solve problems, that others cannot." Colonel Granger leaned in closer. "I'll be honest, it will be dangerous, but your assistance can save many lives in the future."

Patrick bit his lips, and looked around the street, where the corpses of both Syndicate gangsters, Assiniboian and Enclave soldiers were being looked over by the survivors, taking weapons, chems and ammo, as well as uniforms that can be used to patch and repair their own armor. The Enclave trooper that had stepped on the pulse grenade was carefully removed from his metal case, alive but injured due to the failure of the power armor, while the armor itself was taken apart to be taken back to be repaired.

Patrick turned back to the colonel. "Well, I really don't have anywhere to go, so I guess I will work with you and Assiniboia."

Granger nodded. "Very well. Rest up, and be prepared for orders in the near future. Dismissed."

Patrick walked away, and Deer Wing quickly caught up with him. "Why did you sell yourself to this murderer and tyrant?"

He turned back to the Indian girl. "Frankly, I don't care if he's American, Assiniboian or an alien. I have no future, and this is the best I have for now. You have something to fight for, while I still need to find my way." Patrick turned around, and left the indomitable Deer Wing behind to ponder that.

Pip-Boy 3000A

Note 465: Point A to B by Land or Sea! The DTS and Assiniboia

Do you have an engagement in Winnipeg when you are in Estevan, or have to get to Fargo from PorLaPra? The Dominion Transportation Service is the premier way for anyone and everyone to travel from place to place in our great nation of Assiniboia!

Founded in 2099, the DTS started out as the government's logistical and transportation service, but as our nation grew bigger and bigger, it became clear that an easy, safe and, gradually, affordable way to move from one side of Assiniboia to another is very important. By 2138, a fleet of fusion powered trains, boats and refurbished Old-World busses was opened to the public's use, using the vast network of rivers, rails and roads that were left behind after the Great War to facilitate the movement of people and goods. A strong nation can only survive if the transportation service is strong, and, by golly, we have a strong transport service!

Now, for the low price of £60, you can use the rivers on our comfortable, luxurious steamboats as you travel down the Assiniboine, Red, Souris and other rivers to your destinations, or £75 for our speedy rail service. While efforts continue to expand bus service, currently only inter-Winnipeg routes and short hops to Fort Headingly and Selkirk are available, for the price of £99!

All DTS vehicles and vessels are well protected, maintaining our own armed security service, as well as RAMP security, so you won't have to worry about raiders, bandits or animal attacks while we get you from your departure point to your destination!

So, remember: in Assiniboia, the only way to get from Point A to B, by Land or Sea, is with the Dominion Transportation Service!


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